Hunted
by LameBicycle98
Summary: Hermione and the werewolf. Warning: A bit dark in early chapters. HGFG Rare Pairing. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

The girl ran deeper into the forest, her bushy hair flapping and flying like the wings of a hawk across her cheeks and chin. It was a brown mass blending into the red cloak she wore, red for Gryffindor, red for the courage that she hoped would seep into her legs to give them strength to run just a bit faster, a few steps quicker to escape the fate she was sure would snatch her up in powerful jaws and devour her with a single mindedness of gluttony and waste.

The beast, the hunter, the carnivore (oh, there was no other name for him!) came barreling out, hind and forelegs beating tribal music against the ground to inch him closer to her, that red-lined prey. His thoughts ran wild like the grey fur that covered his back and head, messy and untamed, to the red that was her clothes, hiding the red tinged skin of her flesh and holding within her the red blood which he would surely enjoy running down his muzzle, his teeth, blending into his eyes like roses losing their petals.

Hermione Granger stumbled over a fallen log which caused her body to sway and fall onto the forest bed of leaves and twigs. Her hands were scratched as she held them up, bewildered to see the tiny rivulets, to her eyes which closed, belatedly, when she heard the now slowing gait of the man-beast whose low growl echoed dangerously off her ears and caused a whimper to fall from her lips.

She rolled onto her back but made no attempt to get back to her feet and resume the chase, so defeated the fall had made her iron will. She was welcomed to the sight of his eyes staring into her own, then trailing down her neck, such a soft and pretty neck, like the white roses of spring. He couldn't resist but to trail his tongue, pink and prickled, across the expanse of flesh, teasing until her flesh rose to meet his, unwilled, trembling and fated to be bitten.

But bite he did not, no, not yet. After all, was he not both man and beast? An animal would have torn her immediately, claws oozing into her muddy blood and savoring the metallic taste of her life. No, he was not an animal, not entirely. A man plays with his food, twirling it around a fork or slashing it into minuscule pieces with a knife until he is satisfied with the discourse of mastication. So here, did Fenrir Greyback slather onto the girl, nipping gently where he desired and running mud-caked paws across her breasts, mimicking a lover and tearing the red cloak, her last defense against all those creatures that bump and grind in the night.

Hermione lifted her eyes to his, thinking of their roundness and the black expanse and so very very terrifying. _What large eyes he has_, she thought as he ripped from her the red cloak and the red dress, leaving her skin to take his scratches and tongue-warmed ministrations. She wondered if he would devour her entirely or leave pieces of her to rot in the forest. She had always cared for the little creatures, and sincerely hoped, in her mind which was calmly panicking and thinking of insanity after insanity, that the ants would be able to take the dried chunks of her flesh and eat just as flies and moth landed, defecated, and spawned their youth.

Then she heard them, the rat-tat-tat-tat of feet, so many feet. Men with the eyes of beasts, feral and strange, accompanied by wolves with mighty paws and swinging genitals and their eyes, knowing, algebraic formulas riddling their heads. One little, red girl plus multiple carnivores equals the meal they were certain to partake once their father, alpha, omega and son finished his toying. They howled, letting their voices caress the air and sky and his ears which perked, _all the better to hear you with my dear_, at their intrusion on his lovers feast.

At this noise he allowed his teeth to sink into her, and she screamed out and ran her fingers into his fur, arching her body into virginal first orgasm against him, bleeding with her eyes fluttering as he drank, tangy, copper blood. Her voice faded when he lifted his head and regarded her with his head cocked royally, the king allowing the prisoner one last respite of air before he ordered the executioner to swing, the axe, chop, against the neck to release the spinal fluid in sputtering gusts. She, in turn, only smiled, acceptance chasing away terror and the necessity to fight back for life and freedom.

"What big teeth you have," she whispered, laying a hand on his muzzle, staining her fingers with her own blood, before her eyes closed and her body quieted. Not dead, but choosing to allow him to take her, drink the rest of her, as her choice, not because he would take it from her. Shallow breaths escaped her pale, pink lips, already discolored from the missing cells, inviting him to silence her lungs.

When the other wolf, a lieutenant, believing her to be dead, rushed forward to claim his share of her body (a hand perhaps, he loved sweetmeat flesh), he was met with the claw of his master, swiping talons of power and the accompaniment of his brutal possessiveness. The lieutenant shrank back, lowering both ears and muzzle to the ground, submitting his rump to the jest of the pack, just as Fenrir stood over the girl, breathing, resting.

And they watched as, unmoving, she slept between the paws of this vicious wolf, naked and secure.


	2. Chapter 2

Note: I had originally intended this to be a one-shot but I had some requests to continue on. Sadly I don't think this chapter had the same flow that the first one had, but, alas, that is how it goes. I wish there was more Fenrir/Hermione out there, as I find it to be an interesting couple. As for this I have no idea if there will be any more. I think there might be, if only because I find writing it to be theraputic.

Thank you.

* * *

She awoke as she had many times before to the sounds of the wolves as they stretched out languidly against one another. The sounds of hairy backs and chests heaving onto four legs was surprisingly loud in the mornings. The girl, bushy haired and red-lipped, attempted to rise herself but was impeded by the large body, a man, wrapped around her small form.

She studied him through half closed eyes, taking in his naked composition (he preferred to sleep, eat and live that way). The hair on his body was thick like the pelt that covered him when the moon was full. It was dark and course, unwashed. His face was fierce and angular. As a geometrician Hermione could make triangles on his face and add them up to one hundred and eighty degrees. All before the morning awakening.

And what an awakening it was. His eyes would flutter, the wings of butterflies, perhaps the only delicate part of him, before opening wide and becoming slits either from the rays of the dawn or an intrinsic distrust of every other organic material. Then his body would shift until he crouched, still leaning over the girl, where his genitals would episodically brush up against her skin. His voice was deep from sleep though he rarely spoke. He would growl grunt grimace and gauge from the back of his throat.

The only time she had heard him speak was when he told her his name followed up by a command to be silent.

He kept her bare-ass and under him whenever feasible. With him there was no analyzation of why or why or why? There was no questioning of his actions before the others. He kept her naked because he liked the way her body felt against his. He used to sleep gathered around his pack (his, because he was the strongest, the quickest, the sharpest, Alpha) with their fur (all wolves, them; he, of a different yet similar species) brushing against him. He had forgotten what it felt like to sleep with the skin of his own and found that he liked it. He kept her under him because that was where she should be.

With an eye on his pack he languidly turned her over. Her body rolled against the ground and she let out a small sound when a rock pressed into her back, small indentation on pink skin. A beetle, black and shiny, disturbed from its own sleep, crawled over her breast. Fenrir, noticing, bent his head down and picked up the bug between his jaws and, crunch, devoured it. A small speck of the internal organs, black on purity, with saliva coating it fell onto an erect nipple. His tongue retrieved the dirt, sluggishly, caressingly, until she made a pleasing sound.

He sank his teeth lightly into her shoulder to remind her, him, the others, that she was there and that she was his.

* * *

They were hunting. The girl carried mixed emotions on the subject. The civilization inside of her remembered forks and spoons and plates and dinner napkins folded into swans and graced upon laps. It shuddered and recoiled when it was faced with blood spattered muzzles, red-sticky-coated fur and the skin-breaching claws. And the laughter, the terrible, triumphant sound that reverberated off the trees. It seemed to branch out of their shining eyes just like his eyes did when he took her, panting and licking and wailing, at night.

Another part of her was fascinated, outside of clinical detachment, with wide eyes as she saw the great animals of the forest fall before the stomping legs, the broad jaws. It was fascinating, abominating, degenerating and liberating to watch them come together as one entity, stronger for all the weak parts, into a fully organic machine of destruction.

Fenrir would lead them. Not one of them, but more than each of them individually.

Hermione never took place in the hunts. She couldn't; it was a physical impossibility. She had tried once, on his urging, to rip with her white, straight teeth into the pulsating artery of a deer that had been easily brought down. She brought her teeth down and nipped lightly, tasting the sweat-salt covered skin, slick with fear. She could have done it, especially under his watchful eye, if she hadn't looked up and seen the blank half-gone eye of the deer, begging, pleading, for her to do it. To end all anticipation with a bite.

She turned her head and vomited. She had never been very good at granting wishes.

Now when they went on the hunt Hermione stayed behind while a female wolf watched her, unblinking, unmoving, save for a growl when the girl moved too far to the left or right. Fenrir always returned to her with a hunk of meat. He would lay it at her feet like he would a pregnant mate who was too infirm to hunt for herself but honored beyond any other because she was baring him the alpha, a son.

Once she had tried to run away. When he did come upon her, panting from the chase, he knocked her against a tree and took her upright for the first time. He bit into her so hard that she carried the scars, pinpricks of black, on her pale skin. His nails, hard as the claws of the animals he lorded over, ripped into her arms and chest, over each pale breast. Her cries echoed out at he ran his tongue over the blood in an act of primal ownership.

She hadn't tried to run after that.

* * *

"I want to leave."

Fenrir looked up, wary. He was already tired from having brought down a hippogriff, nasty creature, the blood still coated on his long arms, and was not willing to deal with what he considered her human tendencies. She still insisted on bathing when blood marred her skin.

Just as well. He almost couldn't control himself when he saw such stark contrast.

"I warned you against speaking," he said softly. He didn't need to use any sort of tone of voice to intimidate her. His size alone did enough. They were sitting on a soft spot of grass. He languished with his legs forward. She sat curled in a ball with only her eyes visible through a tangle of curly hair.

"I want to leave," she stubbornly repeated if not in a voice which was softer, lilting, afraid.

"Don't you know," his voice rasped a bit from disuse. He moved onto all fours and crawled in front of her. "Don't you know," he repeated. "That you're not ever going to leave? Not unless I kill you."

"There are other ways to die than by your hand," she lifted her chin defiantly. He hand shot out and cupped her face, running a nail across the smooth skin of her cheek, a teasing and a warning all at once.

"No, little one. I will make sure that no harm comes to you except that which I inflict." He ran a hand over the bite marks at her neck and shoulder, a caress that made her shudder. "And how I enjoy inflicting my marks upon you, little one. You're pretty enough but what I do to you makes you beautiful. This," he ran a tongue over a large scar on her knee, "is true beauty."

"It's an abomination," she whispered, her eyes cold. With a jerk he pulled her legs out from under her, causing her body to stretch out longways. She hit him, let out a cry that was animal like him, like calls to like they say as his prick sprang to instant attention.

"Everything I do to you is a gift," he hissed into her ear as he settled himself at her entrance. "You are mine, little one."

She shook her head back and forth.

"Say it."

"No," her eyes were wet with tears but none were brave enough to trail down her face.

"You insist upon speaking. Say it. Say it little one. Tell me you're mine," he slid inside of her now, familiar with the feeling.

"Tell me," he thrust.

"Never!" she screamed out as her head flew back against the ground.

"You think." Thrust. "It matters?" Thrust. "Words are meaningless." Thrust. "All that matters." Thrust. "Is that you." Thrust. "Are beneath me." Thrust. "And always will be." Slow Thrust. Explosion from two sources.

They lay together, her back smooth against his chest, pricking with goose bumps from his shaggy hair. His arms and hers held one another together and a giant leg lay secure on her thigh.

"I'm not yours. I never will be," she said quietly as she hung her head into his and her arms, to obscure the eyes of the forest.

"Little one," he said softly as he nipped her shoulder once again as he always did. He squeezed her body against his and relished in her young flesh.

"You already are."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks so much for all my lovely readers and especially those who review. I'm glad that enough people seem to enjoy this rather rare (on this site at least) pairing. Hopefully we'll be seeing some more Hermione/Fenrir eventually. Thank you all again, and enjoy.

Hunted

Chapter III

The first time Hermione saw him change she watched with a fascination not unlike when she had first witnessed a small act of magic; Dumbledore levitating a saucer at her parent's home. Again she felt the wonder, the widening of her eyes, and the disbelief followed by the swell of a bittersweet chorus of voices informing her that the world is now and forever changed.

The moon was the orb of third year Defense Against the Dark Arts class again. It brought a cold shiver of fear and anticipation that ran up her spine like ants. His body, already hairy and thick even while human, sprouted soft, gleaming fur over every inch of his sun-splattered skin. His jaw elongated, morphing while the bones cracked and creaked while those terrible, terrible teeth, canines particularly sharp, grew long and hot.

"The horror," she whispered.

His new body stood on hind legs and threw his arms back while his muzzle reached forward and let out a howl. The noise was all at once a sound of jubilation, a sound of wonderful feral fury and, to Hermione alone, a sound of dominance.

There again was that fear that always prickled her skin when he approached her. She shrank back against the wood of a tree. She feared the pain and the sound her screams would make when they hit her ears. Oh, how she hated the sound of her suffering. It always sounded so hopeless. The undercurrent, running wild with fancy under her fear, however, was relief. If he tore her up she would be free of him.

That final bite never came, however. He bent his head down next to hers. His nostrils flared as they took in her scent. His mouth parted as that saliva, that diseased mixture, dripped over her tongue, teeth, and lips.

He bit her. He bit her lips. He bit her breasts. He bit the nub between her legs. Softly, ever so softly, he bit the whimpering flesh of her neck and drew blood. He kissed the ruined flesh beneath his strong paws and married her to him in a primal ceremony with his pack, black-eyed beasts, howled a refrain of congratulations.

"The horror," her voice finished the quote as her eyes fell shut.

* * *

"What's it like?"

She was lying at his feet, idly picking the petals off a rose (imagery not quite lost on her but pointedly ignored) while he rested his bones against the trunk of a tree and watched her through lazy eyelids. He made a noise at the back of his throat, a tepid warning, before seemingly changing his mind and indulging her need to converse.

He asked her to clarify in not so many words.

"The first time." She turned to face him, rose still clutched in her hands, while her hair, a tangled mess of dirt and dried spit, fanned out in the ground below. "When you change."

He was silent for a long moment. She went back to plucking her petals.

He loves me.

"It was terrifying," his voice said evenly, reverently, a whisper of awe. "But after the terror came something so great that... that I can understand why your people fight as they do against my lord."

He loves me not.

"What was it?"

He loves me.

"Freedom, little one. You will experience it soon. Then you will know." His dark eyes traveled her body with anticipation of its inevitable forced maturity. "It is something that passes beyond morality. It is in the very essence of all things." Seeing her furrowed brow, he shifted his weight and tried to think of words in her language that would help her to understand his point.

But oh, how much easier it would be for her to understand him with the song of praise to the nightly orb, the snarls and squeals, the air against a body covered in dark fur.

Soon, he reminded himself, soon.

He loves me not.

"Your people," he began slowly, "they fight because they believe that my lord will take from them their freedom-"

"-he will," interjected the girl who, with a steel glare that was aimed in her direction, quieted and averted her eyes.

"And their ability to make choices. However," he shifted again, rubbing a sore spot on his back against the rough wood, "that freedom that your people so desperately rallies behind is something they will never grasp."

Hermione understood, then, and was aghast. "What you are speaking of is anarchy."

He loves me.

"When you change, little one, you will know. It is beyond words like anarchy, beyond your logic, your civilization, your history. It is a choice of your black and white, your good and evil and all those branches of grey and knowing that you are able to walk down each and every path without any restrictions. Your people will never know this. Even if they win they will still be bound by their laws, their own prejudices against my kind - our kind," he amended without noticing her flinch. "They will be bound by their Ministry idols and the declarations that were penned by wizards who were probably drunk when writing half of them. They will be bound by their own personal guilt. They will be bound by anyone who tells them to stop."

"_Eleutheria_,"she whispered the word in Greek so softly he barely heard it, though his ears pricked.

"When you change you will take a life because you are stronger than it. You will spare life because you are feeling generous. Either choice will have the same consequence; none."

He loves me not.

He flower, empty of petals, now ugly, was tossed aside.

"Your kind," she stressed the word so that it was clear it did not involve her, "would slaughter myself and my family and many of my loved ones for the simple fact of their having had the wrong parentage, something none of us could help."

He growled low and swept her into his arms. She complied enough to rest her head against his slowly rising chest. Her skin, which was cold from lying on the ground, warmed up against his own.

"Better for a few to be truly free than to have a world enslaved," he said quietly.

She did not agree but, though a younger version of herself would have pressed the point, the older version, tired and weary and realizing the fruitlessness of the venture, allowed him his beliefs unchallenged.

* * *

That night, under the light of the full moon, the dark-haired beast called Fenrir Greyback ran out across the enchanted forest. His prey, a young doe, was running on sheer panic and was managing to keep just a few steps ahead of him. Fenrir imagined his dinner was going to be lost for a brief second before another figure, sleek and brown, hurled itself out from behind a cord of trees. Their eyes met and flashed before the younger beast, paws pressing down on the body of the bucking creature, sank fresh, pristine teeth into the jugular and burst the vein with wild abandon.

That night, proud and tall, Hermione Jane Granger carried to her pack her first kill. As many teeth sank into the flesh the dark-eyed Alpha watched her carefully with a pleased expression.

Her heart, beating outside its confines at last, exulted.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Hello everyone. I wanted to say thank you all for your kind reviews. I'm a little overwhelmed by the interest in this rather rare pairing. I'm glad you're all enjoying it. I'm sorry I haven't been able to get back to everyone personally, but know that if you did review I have read them and they have made me very happy. To the anonymous reviewer who was asking if there were any other stories of this type - well, there probably are. Unfortunately I haven't really come across them. I think Lupin/Hermione is a bit more mainstream for werewolf pairings(in fanon, anyhow).

Thanks again and enjoy.

Hunted

Chapter 4

Hermione stretched slowly, her limbs creaking and complaining. At Hogwarts she has been used to her bones giving off noises such as these. She has always been a disastrously early riser. This had always been confusing to Harry and Ron who would point out that the books she read in those shining twilight hours would still be there in the library no matter the time of day. Yet, even sleep deprived she pulled herself day after day out of bed to tread into that wonderful sanctuary of leather spines and stick her head into the developing worlds of potions, ancient runes and transfiguration. Most were beyond NEWT level.

Now when she awoke it was usually past noon. Fenrir often chose to sleep past the midday sun which bore down as the omnipresent god it was. She, tangled in his limbs, had no choice but to adjust.

She supposed she was getting used to this sort of thing. Getting used to the monthly changes into a beast her grandmother warned her about as a young girl, of eating meat with her hands and tearing it off the bone with her teeth, of routine and random fucking, against a tree or on the ground, once in a pool of water. She was getting used to the idea that she might not die any day and that her life was going to be filled with him. Not books or Harry Potter or potions' explosions or house elf liberation campaigns, but the wolf in the fairy tale who didn't just devour granny but devoured the little girl as well and bred her into his plebeian world of Darwinism, survival of the fittest and all that. And there wasn't going to be a friendly woodsman with an axe who saved her, or digestion juices to ease the pain of her tough meat in his body. No, she was there until the forest itself took her.

She awoke and walked towards a still pool of water. Hermione enjoyed the feeling of the water, a half attempt at bathing, in the mornings. It felt cool, refreshing, a way to help her clean the mire from her skin.

She wasn't used to, and felt she never would get used to, the body hair. She supposed that Fenrir liked it, liked the friction it would cause when he ran his hands over every inch of her. He treated her like she once treated Crookshanks, running his palms and nails lightly over her expanse of flesh, the smooth back, the smooth stomach, down and up her legs which had months worth of hair growth, under her armpits which had little tufts of soft fuzz, and to that small shield of decency between her legs which he would cup in a manner which was both delicate and possessive.

The water felt good. It caught in the tangled mess that was her hair and trickled down her back. She bent her head forward and long, wet tendrils of her hair fell across her breasts.

This is how she looked when Fenrir came across her. He stopped when he saw her, a vision of the forest. He recalled a story which flitted like a butterfly across his mind. Nymphs. That's what she looked like. A small forest nymph playing in the water. He must have made some noise because she turned to him. Her eyes appeared startled, like Artemis when Actaeon had come across her vulnerable divinity. And like that goddess of the forest, Hermione's eyes blazed with defiance. She stood proudly before him, dripping wet, as he stood proudly before her. The dichotomy of the male and female divinities.

He held out a hand and in a low voice said "Come." She appeared startled and faltered back a step. Fenrir was immediately reminded of a deer, a young fawn perhaps, when it realizes that the wolves are upon it. There is that single, delicious moment of knowledge, an affront of mortality, before the flight instinct takes over.

"Come," he said again, soothing.

The girl took a step forward and another before she was close enough to touch him. She placed her hand in his large one and his fingers came curling over her.

"Good girl," he murmured and led her back to the safety of the pack.

* * *

It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

It was coming close. The night with its tendrils of calming darkness and the moon, a shining ornament in its fully glory which would change her lovely body into a monster with claws and sharp, wretched teeth, yellow eyes and perked ears that could hear the sounds of the trembling heartbeats of her prey. But it hadn't happened yet. She was still herself. She was still Hermione Jane Granger.

And she, at present, was running. Running, however, was a bit of an understatement. She was more accurately being dragged by Fenrir Greyback as he crisscrossed his way expertly through the woods. Hermione scratched and beat at the arm which held her all while trying not to trip. She asked him why he was acting like this. He grunted and only pushed her to run faster. And then, all of a sudden, they were stopped and Hermione's back was to a tree. Fenrir's hand was at her mouth, his body was pressed against hers. He looked around the side of the great tree, a willow, and growled low.

"They're coming," he said softly. "The Order."

Hermione's heart was fully in her eyes and Fenrir saw.

He leaned his head down so that his voice whispered in her ear. "Do you think they'll take you back, little one? Even if you do manage to get away from me, kill me, do you think they'll take you back?" With one hand he lovingly caressed the scars on her neck from when he had bitted her in his werewolf form.

She wailed against his hand, shaking her head back and forth trying to dislodge him.

"You bear my mark, little one. They'll kill you for that alone."

And then, with a delicate kiss to her forward, he dragged her, wailing, through the woods again.

She wasn't quite sure how it happened but all at once it seemed they were cornered by Order members. Hermione could make out Kingsley Shaklebolt and Tonks, sporting her wild pink curls, there was Mad-Eye Moody who was looking determinably paranoid and then, right before her was ...

"Harry!" she cried out, pulling away from Fenrir who, preoccupied with Moody's wand near his face, allowed her to go.

"Hermione? Oh Merlin, we thought you were dead," the boy wonder looked all at once shocked, overjoyed and then his face fell into anger. "Has he hurt you? Did he hurt you? I'll kill him if he so much as touched you."

Hermione only sobbed, allowing herself to be gathered into Harry's arms on the forest floor. He quickly covered her naked body with his cloak and held her gently, stroking her hair and cooing her gently, telling her it would be okay.

Fenrir, held at wandpoint by the three Aurors, stared at the girl in the hero's arms and felt his insides twist with a dark jealousy.

And then, unmercifully, the moon rose.

"Get away from her, Potter!" cried Moody, his magic eye trained on the girl.

"What are you talking about? This is Hermione!" said Harry.

"She's been bitten, Potter. She's a monster like this one. Get away from her _now_!"

Harry only shook his head, disbelieving. He was staring into her eyes as her face grew and her claws folded, when her teeth grew feral. Harry shook his head frantically, as if it would dislodge the view of this transformation from both his mind and reality.

"Harry!" she cried out, trying to inch towards him as he unconsciously backed away. "I'm still me! I'm still Hermione!"

And when her name was uttered from her lips the beast form fully took over her. Staring now into the eyes of Harry Potter was a werewolf, like any other, licking its lips and ready to pounce.

Hermione yelped as a hex from Kingsley's wand hit her paw. She cowered and licked it, hoping her saliva would cull the burning sensation.

Fenrir, also transformed, took the opportunity of Moody's preoccupation with Harry's safety and lunged for him. It was a bitter struggle. Moody was old, however, and Fenrir was used to fighting tooth and claw. The werewolf quickly came on top of the old Auror and was prepared to sink his teeth into the old wizards wizened throat.

And then she cried out again. Another hex, this time from Tonks, was thrown at her. She stumbled back, bleeding from her side, and whined loudly. Fenrir, murderous rage in his eyes, leapt at Tonks, taking hearty, careless vengeance on she who would dare hurt his chosen mate.

There was a human voice in his mind, almost always quieted but always _there_, which took a perverse delight in rearranging the metamorphmage's face with his claws, something he thought not even her magic could do.

And then Hermione was next to him and his blood craze was temporarily forgotten. She was injured and needed to be hidden. Somewhere safe.

What transgressed next was a series of spectacular violence. Fenrir fought brilliantly, often lodging his own body in front of Hermione's to take hexes aimed for her. All the while he heard Harry's voice shouting for the others to stop but he was ignored, if the number of hexes thrown were any indication.

He was still unsure how he managed to make it out of there alive with her. When she was safe with him in a cave not too far off that he had often used for recuperation he began to look at her wounds. She wasn't horribly injured but there was a large amount of blood coating her fur. Fenrir's own boiled at the sight, his anger blinding him. He had half a mind to run back out into the night, to finish those worthless Aurors off.

But she was whimpering. The noise caused his ears to flatten and his head to lower. Softly, carefully, he dragged his tongue across her blood-matted fur. She shifted, winced when his tongue ran across a particularly deep cut, and pressed her body closer to his. He continued to clean her until her body was rid of all traces of the night.

His growl was low against her ear. It was very plebeian to her ears, still untrained to the language of animals. But the meaning was very clear.

_Mine._

She pressed herself closer to him and rested her head on his paws.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Wow, thanks everyone for your wonderful reviews. The reponse is very phenomenal. You're all fantastic individuals. More positive adjectives!

As a note on the story itself - nobody has actually questioned this yet but in my mind the pack that Fenrir is running with are actual wolves, not werewolves. I always imagined that Fenrir would keep to the pack mentality and such as opposed to going the route of the loner (which most werewolf lore tends to say they are). I can see the argument for him being a loner as well (since he's presented as a helluva lot darker in the actual books than I'm presenting him) but Lupin seems to want to hold onto that pack mentality, so I suppose there's another arugment against the loner theory.

Also, this hasn't come up in the story thus far either, but I always imagined that Fenrir would have an animagus form as a wolf as well. He doesn't seem to be a huge magic user so it would make sense that he would try to do wandless magic whenever feasible and animagus tranforming doesn't seem to require a wand. That's how I'm viewing him, anyhow. Feel free to disagree with me. Now, onto the story. Please leave a review at the end.

Hunted

Chapter 5

Fenrir Greyback was watching his mate as she played with the pups. Hildegard, a stout, fierce creature had recently given birth to a small litter. They're had been four in total but the runt had succumbed after only a few days. His mate, Hermione, had cried whereas Hildegard, long since familiar with death, had turned her head to her living pups and quickly forgot.

Fenrir had stood by her quietly while Hermione started to dig into the earth. When he saw what she was doing he moved her aside and began to dig himself. The dirt came out in large clumps with worms flailing in protest at the move. When it was deep enough, he moved aside and allowed Hermione to gently place the runt into the freshly dug grave.

"He's so small," she said in a tiny voice. She had stopped crying but her eyes were still puffy and her face splashed with pink.

"It's the way of things," he told her gruffly.

She gave him an odd look at that. It was strange, though. The Fenrir that Hermione had originally heard of was a monster of epic, Voldemort without the ambition, proportions. He enjoyed maiming, drinking blood, cannibalism. His favorite pastime was torturing children. He had turned Remus when he was only a boy and he had done it smiling all the way.

This Fenrir that stood before her now was just as cruel as everyone had made him out to be, and certainly just as delightfully violent. He was also a leader, a fierce protector, and, as she recalled the feel of his tongue over her wounds given to her by Mad-Eye Moody, loyal to those he cared about. Loyal and curiously tender.

Similar thoughts were running through the werewolf's mind as he gazed on the young girl. She was whispering some sort of mantra, probably a muggle prayer, over the mound of dirt. Hiz gaze lazily flickered over her body, evenly browned from the sun, torn, bitten, dried blood across her knees and elbows, her hair sticking out like matted stalks.

He had never seen anyone so beautiful.

Or anything so very much his.

He dimly recalled having first heard about her from Lucius Malfoy. The Patriarch had been rambling as he was wont to do about the young girl who had bested his son repeatedly at Hogwarts. Fenrir had only half listened. If Malfoy wasn't complaining about one thing or another he was toadying to the Dark Lord or indulging his less than aristocratic craving for blood.

Lucius Malfoy was a hypocrite of the largest sense, thought Fenrir darkly as he watched Hermione reach over to grab some flowers to place on the make-shift grave. The man would give every indication that he was a gentleman, impeccable clothing, that silly cane; it really was a wonder the man didn't invest in a top hat and a monocle, and yet when the time came for dirtying ones hands Lucius would be first in line. He had a knack for torture and suffering that went beyond necessity and into a perverse pleasure.

It wasn't something that Fenrir wasn't unfamiliar with. Every time he killed a human adult or child he thought about ones like him, werewolves and wolves, who were hunted, laughed at, beaten, murdered for the sake of a trophy. It wasn't any different when Lucius and the other Death Eaters did the same thing with mudbloods.

But it was Fenrir and his kind who would be able to rule the night, free from fear, with humans cowering before them, if the dark lord won.

Fenrir had first spied the girl as she was collecting herbs in the forbidden forest. She was with her class, probably Herbology, and they had been delicately hoarding Wolfsbane.

_How appropriate_.

She had stood out from the others in her class. She was very natural. She didn't have the makeup slathered by the bucket-fill on her face or the poise of the purebloods with the constant stick-up-the-ass syndrome. She was bent over and handling the plants with the delicacy of a newborn child. Her hair was striking as it flew every which way, like a goddess of the forest, like a fairy. Her eyes were wide, bright saucers that took such impish, innocent delight in new experiences. Fenrir found it to be an intoxicating sight.

A sight that he wanted for his own.

And so he had started watching her within the forbidden forest. Whenever she went to pick herbs with her classmates or to take a stroll through the forest he would devour her with his eyes in silent anticipation of the inevitable. She would be his. He desired her. He would make her his.

It had been so perfect, so utterly picture perfect when she had gone walking alone through the forest with that red cloak. He had barked with laughter, almost doubling himself over from the sheer intensity of it.

She had fallen, much as he expected her to. And, having fallen, became his.

Now she was touching his arm in askance to leave. He took another look at the grave and saw that she had put the flowers in a wreath around the tomb like a requiem from the forest. Fenrir thought it was funny, really. In a lot of ways she didn't belong there. She was compassionate whereas the earth mother was cruel and exact. Hermione still had the ability to cry for the young when they were taken before their time, whereas the pups own mother had left it on the ground to be the food for worms and ants.

They walked off then, following the rest of the pack. When Hermione grabbed his arm and held it, the tears coming to her eyes once again, Fenrir felt a tug in his chest. He wrapped his arms around her tightly, rubbing soothing circles onto her arms.

She wept into his chest as he buried his nose into her hair.

------------

The Death Eaters had been gathered for the second time this month. Fenrir could smell the anticipation the younger members were reeking of; it was wet and sour at once, like a virgin before her slaughter. The older members, Malfoy, Snape, Avery, Lestrange and Nott were more subdued but for a prickly tendril of fear that would occasionally waft into the nostrils. Malfoy was possibly the worst at covering up the smell. The expensive colognes he used only made his own smell, hidden under so many artificial layers, that much more intense and readable. Snape was the exact opposite. He smelled natural, like herbs, like a man, like he was giving away absolutely nothing.

Lord Voldemort was sending the lesser circle out on various tasks, raids, unimportant missions of terror. It was so very clinical. Fenrir loathed meetings. He found them to be utterly without any sort of passion. It was like Muggle surgery. Methodical and sterile.

The inner circle remained while each gave a report. Fenrir, thankfully, was almost never required to report anything. As long as he was ruthless and keeping a watch on the forests then Lord Voldemort was pleased with him.

When the Dark Lord had left for the evening Fenrir quickly approached the elder Malfoy and stopped him.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Greyback?" said Malfoy in a tone that clearly stated the pleasure was feigned at best.

Fenrir cleared his throat with a growl which was menacing without meaning to be. Lucius flinched involuntarily but else remained passive.

"I was wondering, Malfoy, if I might borrow something of yours."

"Oh, and what would that be?" His hand tapped against his cane.

"A book." The tapping stopped. Lucius narrowed his eyes. The man was ridiculously open with his suspicions.

"Taken to improving that vocabulary of yours? Thinking of giving poetry recitals in the forest? Sounds delightful, really." He smirked. "Which volume in particular?"

"Anything."

"My my. Far be it from me to stop the higher learning of the working class." He chuckled to himself as Fenrir gave another low growl. The amusement faded from Lucius' aristocratic face and he cleared his throat.

"Yes yes. Apparate with me to the manor. You may choose whichever you like. And, Greyback, mind you don't bark at the house elves. It really puts them off."

----------

Hermione had spent the time Fenrir was gone playing with Hildegards' pups. They were still rather small - each one fit in the palm of her hand. She enjoyed playing little games with them. Their favorite was when they found a large, black, shiny beetle. Each pup had batted at it with a paw and then turned to hide behind Hermione when it fluttered its wings.

Eventually though the pups went to get fed from their mother so Hermione was left with little to do. She didn't want to think that she actually missed Fenrir but when he was gone she was frightfully bored. She rolled her eyes at the fact that she'd rather be scared witless than bored. The rest of the pack wasn't very entertaining. They'd either be out hunting (which she wasn't allowed to do without the Alpha present) or took to sleeping or just lounging around.

Hermione was so lost in her thoughts of being bored that she didn't even hear Fenrir approaching behind her. She gave a startled cry when he plopped down next to her, still dressed in Death Eater robes. Hermione shivered and turned away from the painful image that the velvet and silk robes always drew up in her mind.

With her face turned away she was startled to feel something heavy being placed in her lap. She looked down and saw a book, _Vampires, Werewolves, And Other Lunar Creatures_, resting on her dirty legs.

"For me?" she asked, surprised. She looked up at Fenrir who was watching her with a somewhat closed expression. He nodded once, then looked away from her.

Hermione couldn't help it, perhaps it was the smell of the book, but all her memories of Hogwarts suddenly came crashing down on her. There were hours pouring over material in the library, reading in the Great Hall as Ron and Harry had to remind her to eat, reading at the Quiddich pitch while the boys flew around on their brooms overhead, the sounds of the classroom, Lavenders annoying laugh as she gossiped with Pavarti in the middle of the night while Hermione had tried to fit in one last iota of information into her brain, the OWLS, dancing with Victor Krum, doing prefect duties with Ron at night, watching Harry smile as Dumbledore praised him in front of the entire school.

The girl hastily wiped away a tear.

"You don't like it," said the man-wolf, though he had hardly glanced at her.

"Oh, no. No! Nothing like that, really. I do like it, a lot. Oh, please don't take it back," she was now clutching the book in a death grip against her chest.

Fenrir reached out and gathered Hermione into his lap. He rested his chin on her head and looked out onto his pack, relishing the feel of the girl in his arms.

"It's a gift, little one. Yours to do with as you like."

Hermione smiled, a real smile, something she hadn't done for quite a long time. With a fervor usually reserved for first years and candy she opened the book and reverently traveled her eyes across the page.

The girl read silently for a time when she finally noticed that Fenrir was looking over her shoulder at the pages, particularly the moving pictures. She looked up and met his gaze. They stared at one another in an uncomfortable silence before the girl licked her lips.

"Would you," she faltered for a minute before continuing. "I mean, that is to say, would you like me to read to you?"

The werewolf growled in a way that wasn't horribly unpleasant and the girl smiled in a shy way.

"Alright then. Let's see, the werewolf is the most universal form of animal possession. One common belief among muggles is that the man or woman must climb into the skin of a wolf each night that it wishes to transform. That is ridiculous, isn't it? The werewolf always changes from a man into a anthropomorphic wolf form for three days of the lunar cycle..."


	6. Chapter 6

a/n: Okay, this is my second attempt at posting this as the first time ended rather badly. Anyhow. Thank you so much everyone who has reviewed. I'm really overwhelmed with the attention this humble little slice-of-slightly-not-so-normal-life fic has been getting. Thank you all so very much.

I'm also curious to see how you, the reader, would like this to end. I'm probably going to be wrapping it up soon so I'm interested to see if you would like this to end on a tragic note or something happily ever after. I have ideas for both so do please help me choose. Thanks again, and please enjoy.

Hunted

Chapter 6

She was running again.

Her hair was almost one single coiled tangle by now. It hung more than lope down her back with a few loose threads hanging across her face and her breasts. Hermione pounded one foot in front of the other, like an endless trail of beating, rampaging drums. The noises echoed like drums in her ear. Thump. Thump.

Thump.

And she ran with a smile on her face and the sun breaking through the trees. It shone in small circles, which the girl jumped with lean muscles stretched long to touch her bare-souled feet in each spot. The crunch of the leaves thrilled her - perfectly perfect music. A symphony and a garage band all at once.

Thump and a Thump again

He too, was running, chasing her. It seemed like forever since that first time. Then she had been red and now she was brown from the sun and the mud - brown like the thick fur that coated his body. He let out a wild noise from his throat which the girl answered with a noise of laughter, mocking him and baiting him all at once.

Their feet became rhythm and their voices cantered the sounds, braving words that no human ear would understand but all the forest trembled with a rush of animation. And all came thumping thumping thumping to every open ear and every closed eye.

With a song. With a blast. With a triumphant roar of beasts.

He prang upon her form and together they fell downward into the dirt and grime. There was a grunt from the male, he had landed on the bottom, while she sprawled out on his temporarily submissive form. Hermione lightly nipped his neck and he growled in pleasure, arching his back so that his hips made contact with her own. Another laugh, almost a giggle (but oh, is that not something utterly _human, _to giggle?) escaped her lips. Fenrir took the opportunity of her eyes being shut in her mirth to turn her over so that he was on top.

The dominant, conquering, victorious Alpha Male has claimed a mate.

And what a mate she was. Wrapping her arms and legs around his muscled, sweaty form she brought him down closer to her own. They took turns alternating between kissing, slobbering, and biting one another.

(She bit his shoulder when he thrust into her so that her growl (pain or pleasure?) would be absorbed into his salty skin. He preferred to nip at her lips until they were red and swollen from his ministrations.)

And when they were spent and their bodies heaving they would sit and talk for a few moments. He always seemed more inclined to be humanly social after a rigorous coupling, a fact that Hermione found a little funny. She imagined it was because afterwards she had taken part of the wolf in her and thus made him more of a man.

"Do you think you will bring me another book?" she asked him as she lay atop him. Her hands were crossed on his chest and her chin rested lightly on her hands. She was smirking at him, drawing a leg up and down his own in a suggestive, possessive way.

"If you would like," he answered. "What will it be this time?"

Hermione closed her eyes in pleasure as she recalled all the titles she would like to read. Suddenly a feeling of nostalgia passed over her like a wave, and hugged herself against him as if trying to block the emotion.

"Perhaps, _Hogwarts, A History_. The latest version if you can get it."

He said he would. She kissed his nose.

And then they were off again, running because the moon was about to enter the heavens. The other wolves were running near them now. The pack was all there, running with the ease of familiarity, of synchronized family. They let out a singular howl where each voice raised up to form a single, terrible and great note of music.

The animals who heard it trembled and were still.

For the wolves were out tonight and the wolves were omnipotent.


	7. Chapter 7

a/n: I've just been writing like mad recently - hence the much quicker than usual update here. I hope this is meets everyone's satisfaction as it is slightly different than the previous ones. I haven't heard a lot of feedback as to what sort of ending you would like so if I don't get that soon I might end up just flipping a coin or something. Alas. Though I am still delightfully thankful to everyone who has reviewed thus far. I'm sorry I haven't been able to get back to you all personally - just know that I read them and they make me insanely happy. I hope the quickness of this chapter makes up for it.

Also, not to shamelessly plug my other fics here cough cough but I do know that a lot of readers for this fic are also Severus/Hermione shippers and I do have a piece in the works titled _Tearing the Veil_ which is primarily SS/HG and some HP/DM. If you like my writing (and even if you don't half of it has been co-written by FlowerPagoda) I'd like to just point everyone in that direction since I absolutely love it and I think you guys might as well.

Thanks so much. Sorry for the dreadfully long author note.

Hunted

Chapter 7

Harry Potter was looking out the window of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place with a weary, closed and vaguely ill expression on his face. It had been months since he'd last seen Hermione and that beast in the forest but almost every hour his thoughts would drift towards his memory of her, particularly of her tear-stained face.

Her pleas to recall that she was still the same, even naked, abused and bitten, she was still his best friend who loved books like most people enjoy candy. Oh, how they echoed in his mind so loudly that not even the gentle caresses and murmurs of Ginny Weasley could chase them away.

His fists clenched, his mismatched nails making indentations into the skin of his palm. Harry knew that he was somehow responsible for all of this. He should have kept a better watch on her. He shouldn't have let her go out into the forest alone. Merlin, he shouldn't have befriended her in the first place. Wouldn't it be better if she was a friendless bookworm locked up in the library day after day? Wasn't that better than the fate he had left her with?

His fists slammed against the windowpane. It would have shattered but for the spells on it.

Ron had taken the news miserably, worse even than Harry thought he would. At first Ron just denied it, like a child who was told he couldn't go out to play because of the rain. Then, when that painful moment of acceptance seeped in (and how could he deny it for long? Moodys' corpse and Tonks' bleeding, scarred face demanded realization of the truth) his face contorted into the epitome of demented rage. He fell to his knees, a supplicant to a god none of them believed in, and screamed until his throat must have bled from the damaged sound.

The terrible tragedy of lost love. Remus, gazing at his beloved and gathering her limp, barely breathing body into his arms, swore revenge on the bastard who had wronged him three times now.

Strike. Strike. Strike. He's out. The cock has crowed. Denied and then acceptance.

And what could they do? They had scoured the forest as best they could but their forces were small and tired from the constant barrage of the Death Eater forces. With Dumbledore dead and buried they were almost like snowflakes in a storm. And there weren't enough of them to stick to the ground. It was like they were all slowly melting under the hot hatred of Voldemort - a veritable Aztec sun god who demanded human sacrifice, be it the enemy or your own.

Harry did not lose hope, however. If there was one thing the boy did not do it was give up hope. When Cedric died he still hoped. When Voldemort invaded his dreams he still hope. He had hope when Sirius went beyond the Veil and never came out. Though it shook his core and rattled every part of him, he hoped when Dumbledore was blasted off the tower. He even hoped, when Hermione lay naked at his feet, and again when she sprouted that terrible fur, that she would return to him and tell him to study more. Just like she always had.

Ron didn't say much about it anymore. After leading a failed rescue attempt (one after the other, so damn, damn, damn many) he eventually just stopped altogether. He concentrated on defeating Voldemort only - as if by taking out the king all the pawns would simply fall down like dominoes. And then, sure, he would be reunited with her and she would tell him that it was only a dream he had while on the Hogwarts Express because he had shoved all those silly chocolate frogs down his throat and they're really bad for you - indigestion gives nightmares. Didn't you know that, Ronald Weasley?

Ignorance, especially self-imposed, surely is bliss. Or, at least, one way to cope.

Still, Harry could not focus on Voldemort or anything else. He just wanted a return to normalcy. He wanted his best bushy-haired friend near him. He wanted her to stand up to his wedding to Ginny, and perhaps to stand up to her own with Ron. They could be so happy. Even if she was a werewolf, well, so what? Remus was as well and he got on well enough. He might be ostracized from the wizarding world as a whole but he still survived. It wasn't as if she was widely accepted even without the disease. Harry thought that it would be enough - his friendship, Ron's love, Remus's empathy. They could be one big, messed up and slightly disfunctional family.

They could. They could they could they could.

He needed to believe that she would be returned to him. Sometimes it was the only thing keeping his feet following one another.

"Please come back," he whispered to himself against the glass. The window fogged under the heat of his breath. "Please, please, please come back."

-.-.-.-.-.--.-.-.-.-.-.-.--.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.--.-.-.-.-.-.--.-.-.--.-.-.-.-.--.-.-.-.-

Fenrir was watching her sleep. He was sitting against the wall of a cave, a little ways away from the bed of grass he had made for her. He enjoyed her small frame as it moved up and down with each breath. He thought it was the most beautiful sight. Hardened and soft all at once.

Hermione was peaceful at rest. Her hands folded under her head while her hair, tangled mess, rested over the top half of her body. A blanket of sorts. _Hogwarts: A History_ was lying half opened next to her where she had stopped reading for the night. Next to it were some other books that Fenrir had picked up from Malfoy Manor that he thought she might like. On top of the books was a single flower, a white lily, that he had picked for her when he realized that she was different now.

Fenrir took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring at the new, unique scent she was giving off. He loved the smell of her. It was an odd mix of dirt and grime and sweat and of innocence (how she had retained that even after his brutal ravishment was something he couldn't fathom but idolized all the same). When she was in heat she smelled spicy, tangy, like an exotic fruit he was dying to peel between his teeth.

Now, however, she had a different smell. One he had smelled often enough among his pack, recently on Hildegard.

He wondered if she knew she was starting to carry his litter. He felt an odd joy and obscene amount of pride when he thought about how it would be her, certainly the most worthy of creatures, who would be the mother of his sons and daughters. They would be werewolves from birth and have an even deeper connection to the moon then even Fenrir himself did. They would be beautiful half-beasts, running wild as kings and queens of the forest. Not even dragons could stop them.

When he noticed her shiver Fenrir moved himself from off the wall and lay down next to his mate. In her sleep she turned to him and he delicately wrapped his arms around her. He would be careful with her now. It wouldn't do for him to risk injuring her or his children. When he took her from then on until she gave birth it would only with extreme caution. She wouldn't hunt either. No sense risking her being hurt by a rampaging hippogriff or the like.

The master werewolf hummed low and pleasingly in the back of his throat. Ah yes, this was perfection in his arms. And it was perfection that drew herself closer in his embrace and wrapped her legs enticingly around his own.


	8. Chapter 8

a/n: Okay, another chapter. Huzzah. Thanks so much for the reviews. Another author note at the end so as I don't give anything away here. Please enjoy!

Hunted

Chapter 8

"Breathe," said Fenrir in a tight, almost strained voice. He held onto Hermione's hand lightly as her dirty nails bit terribly into his flesh. He winced but allowed no sound to pass his lips.

Hermione was laying on a deerskin, another of Fenrir's gifts to her. It was rough, perhaps, but warm. In the weeks previous, when her belly and feet and breasts had swelled, she had taken almost rapturous delight in the presents that he bestowed upon her. Choice cuts of meat, books and flowers, sometimes he even brought milk and fruits. He also made a habit of keeping a fire going at night so that she wouldn't grow cold. She wouldn't have, anyway - his body was always next to hers, distributing the warmth.

"Push, love," Fenrir's voice quietly murmured against her ear. She whimpered and looked up into his eyes. He looked exactly as he thought a father should - tall, strong, quietly proud. His strength gave her strength, and she took comfort in him even though her body was wracked with almost numbing pain.

Hermione was in such a flurry of emotions she didn't know if she wanted to laugh or cry - though she settled for screaming when the physical pain grew too intense. This birth, she thought almost insanely, was as natural as they come. No pain medications, no IV, no midwife, nothing but some soft blankets Fenrir had managed to scrounge up and a fire to try to keep the warmth in.

When she had learned of her condition she had been deliriously happy, but in a stilted way. She had always wanted children - someone to mold, someone to teach, someone to let go of and watch fly away into the large world. She had always imagined she'd be with someone like Ron - someone who wasn't as interested in reading or learning as she was but who had a good heart and would care for her, adore her, love her . . . marry her.

But with Fenrir she could almost delude herself into believing that he adored her as she wanted to be adored. Certainly he was at her beck and call lately. He brought to her intelligent, if somewhat passionate and carnal, discussion which was something she would have never had with Ron. She was treated as a Queen of the forest; how Artemis would have been treated if the goddess had ever let go of her sacred virginity.

"Push, mate," came Fenrir's voice over the wave of pain. It was grounding, a light at the end of the darkness, something to cling to. Strength for her aching body.

Hermione sucked in sweet air and pushed, a wail of new life echoing from her lips.

"_This is it, mate," said Ronald Weasley, breathing hard as he looked across the field at the gathered death eaters. "Blimey, they look like a sea of black," he whispered in awe._

"_Yeah, they do, don't they?" said Harry, distracted. He was poised, wearing only a simple t-shirt and a pair of jeans. It felt good, somehow, to dress like a muggle while going up against the muggle-haters anonymous club. Even if today was the end of all his days, Harry wanted to snub the bastards in any way he could. _

_And what a sea of black they were. In the distance their pointed hats could just be made out. They were marching almost as one. One thought, one mind, one purpose. They were singular, great, and terrible. Harry Potter shuddered at the thought of the one who controlled them - the eminent general, the denier of love, the easiest hater in the world. _

_Lord Voldemort, bane of everything._

_He, dark, tall man, was in front of his army. He was proud, the sin was visible from his straight shoulders, his calm swagger, the way his lips parted with anticipation. His eyes, red fire iris', burned and consumed like fat, glutton-pigs._

_Harry Potter felt his knees trembling as a sick thought ran through his head. "Is he what I was made for? Was it this moment?"_

_And then, a few seconds later, almost an afterthought flitting about. "And what shall I do afterwards?"_

_But the present was the only thing Harry could worry about now. He lifted his wand as he had seen generals do on made for tv movies and marched on forward._

_For my parents. For Cedric. For Sirius. For Dumbledore. For Hermione Granger._

"I can't, I can't," whimpered Hermione. She let out a sigh as Fenrir placed another cool cloth on her brow. The kindness of the gesture made the pain drop away for a few moments as she focused solely on the refreshing wetness.

Fenrir gathered blankets, clean and silk (he had taken them earlier from Malfoy without the long-haired wizard noticing. He was rather preoccupied lately which served Fenrir well) and brought them near Hermione's parted legs, ready to catch and purify the child as it entered the world.

A moment later the pain began again as hot tears fell down her face.

_The battle was fierce. Had anyone expected anything less? For evil fights with ardor and bravery for all their faults. They believed in something too. They wanted to change the world. Change through cataclysmic events, through massive death, through a holocaust of souls. _

_And light, breaking through on the wings of the Phoenix, to stop the impending change and restore order._

_But the darkness was methodical madness. Voldemort was magnificent in his cold rage as he brought many a wizard and witch to their knees. Funny, he always made them bow before him before he silenced them with the Avada. Like by swearing fealty they could know peace through a quick death. _

_And they said Lord Voldemort knew no mercy._

_Remus Lupin was the one to take down Bellatrix Lestrange. She had beseeched her lord to rescue her, to do something for her in her final moments. Had she not followed him fervently, believed in his cause, loved him in her twisted, obsessive way? Would he not come for her now and cover her with his cloak, at least to shield her eyes for one last second before that flash of green invaded her? It would all have been worth it if he would come and gaze regretfully at her for a moment - any sign to show he cared._

_What good it did her, when the dark lord scoffed at her fallen body, and marched headlong into the boy-who-lived, drew his wand and sent a slicing hex at the boy's neck._

"Just a little more, mate. I can see the head."

Agony, blessed agony, ripped through her. Fenrir grounded her when she would have blacked out. He focused her thoughts on him so that she thought only of pleasing him, and herself, by letting the little child out of her.

"Give it one more push. Then the arms and legs should come out easily enough. Ah, here it comes . . ."

_They circled like lions over a fresh kill. Indeed, the bodies of Kingsley Shacklebolt and Walden McNair were curled like cats on the ground between them. A barrier of death. One more would fall._

"_Boy," cried Voldemort, triumph alighting his eyes. "You think you can match the strength of Lord Voldemort? You're nothing, child. I've made you what you are."_

_He raised his wand with ease._

"_And I can unmake you."_

_Harry dodged but not before sending a curse of his own flying out in blue iridescent light. Did he hit Voldemort? It didn't matter as the dark wizard was sending hex after hex at the boy in his cold, high, mocking voice. Oh how joyfully did the dark lord flirt with death. He laughed with madness and enough hatred to give him a glimmer of sanity - something to focus on. Oh Harry Potter, he hates you so much it's made him sane._

Wailing. It wailed its first word, an ahhhhhh. It made Hermione wail too, but silently, in joy. Finally. The deed was done. She could rest.

He was right. The rest just slipped out. Almost easy. As if anything from the experience could be classified as easy.

Her eyes, half-lidded with a dull pleasure and pain, gazed upon Fenrir as, naked as Adam and with just as much shame, he cleaned the newborn, wrapping it in the white silk. He said something which Hermione didn't hear over the buzz in her ears. She looked at him oddly, and he only laughed and repeated it a bit louder.

"_You're nothing, boy, just a fly in the honey," snarled Voldemort._

_Both the contestants were bleeding and grasping at their wands and at their minds, trying to call out a spell that would give them the upper hand._

"_I. Am. Your. Destroyer," panted Harry, who meant it._

_Each raised their wands and cast the only spell left in their minds. Green illuminated the sky._

"It's a boy."

He then handed the child to his mother carefully, his strong arms supporting the head until she was able to grasp her progeny in her arms. Her eyes watered and a smile broke out across her face. Oh, such love, such joy, such longing echoed in her sob.

"Why do you cry?" asked Fenrir, at once stiffening and afraid. Was something wrong with the child? All he could see before him was perfection. Perhaps she was rejecting the child as she had once rejected him. Or worse, perhaps the child was dead. Indeed, it had stopped crying not long after birth. Its eyes were closed. Had it died in the moment he handed it to his mate?

"I'm crying," said Hermione with a weak smile up at him. "Because he's beautiful."

As are you, thought Fenrir.

_They both fell. _

_And a hush descended._

_Ah, thought the wise, this is what the breath before history is made feels like._

_And a lone figure rose, on shaky legs, up from the parched earth._

Fenrir wrapped his mate in a blanket and drew her and his son into his arms. He nuzzled his face into her hair and inhaled deeply. He could still smell the blood and sweat on her skin. The smell filled him with pride and a rage to protect. He held them both tightly against his chest, certain that they would be with him, perhaps like this in this moment, forever.

"I thank you, mate, for giving me this gift," he whispered into her ear, but she was sound asleep in his arms. She was safe and home with her family. Danger had passed. It was her time to rest.

_It was Harry Potter who stood up, his scar blacker than ever, his green eyes like death, as exultation and relief passed through the crowd of phoenixes._

_He was partly happy as he had never been happy before, alleviated as he was from the burden. In that relief came a sense of loss, of weight being lifted. Instead of this being an act of freedom, however, it felt like his previously crushed lungs could finally breathe only to learn that all the air had been stolen away._

_And it was Harry Potter who wept. _

* * *

_a/n: _Ah well, war sucks. Poor Kingsley and Mcnair (not Bellatrix, I don't really like her for some reason. It's such a joy killing her. . .) I like them a lot so I'm a bit upset that they died but someone had to. Poor Voldemort especially! I'm sad that he's more than likely going to die in canon. He's so enjoyable with his crazyness. Alas. And fear not, happy ending won in a ridiculous landslide so the angst should be lessening eventually. Which is all good and plenty. I generally prefer happy endings too. It gives me that warm, fuzzy sense of completion. Okay, thanks for reading again and please review!


	9. Chapter 9

Hunted

Chapter 9

Time passes much as it always does, in either a rush where nothing can be seen as the minutes and hours fly by in some ecstacy of motion, or slowly in contemplation of each second where every transgressed feeling is magnified and pain, love and peace are caressed and cherished.

"Hati," Hermione Granger's voice, stern and loving at once, came to the young, shaggy-brown haired boys' ears. He lifted himself up from bending over a fallen tree where he was fascinated with a group of ants that were slowly tearing apart the body of a decaying, black beetle.

"Mum," breathed the boy who was now cornered with a problem. Part of him wanted to run to his mother and throw his arms around her, feel her warmth. Another part of him wished to continue watching the dissection.

Hermione watched her son waver in his indecision before kneeling next to him, careful to pull up her white dress so that it wouldn't get dirty. After Hati had been born Hermione had told Fenrir that she wanted to wear clothes again and that she wanted him to do the same. At first it seemed as if he was going to refuse her, his face had darkened considerably and he said nothing. The next day, however, she was presented with dresses of all sorts of colors and cuts.

That was years ago. Now their son was four years old.

"What's that?" asked Hati, tugging on his mother's arm to gain her attention.

"Ants, love. They're taking the beetle home to their queen for a feast."

"Eww!" the boy squinched his nose and rubbed his head on his mother's arm. She smiled down at him, gathering him into her arms and sitting him on her lap. That the boy had not acquired the same tastes as his father had been a private joy to the young mother.

Hati was born with werewolf genes, not exactly a common occurrence, even in wizards. Unlike his parents he would be able to control when he transformed later in his life as his magic grew. He also had more control over his bestial nature when he was in werewolf form, being able to overcome the instincts to feed and breed. Of course he didn't show many of those signs yet, but he was young and impulsive still.

Hati squirmed in his mothers arms as they both looked continued to watch the ants crawl around over and in the beetle.

"It was moving," he said.

"What was moving, love?" asked Hermione, resting her lips gently on the crown of the boys head.

"The beetle," he said and pointed to it to clarify. "It was moving and now it isn't."

Hermione sighed and put her cheek close to his. "The beetle died, love. That's all."

"Died?"

"Yes," she hesitated. She thought of a way to explain something simple and deep as death to her son. She almost wished she had allowed Fenrir to take the boy with them when they went hunting as he wanted to do. Images, however, of bleeding limbs from torn deer was not how she wanted her son to learn the finer points of life. Fenrir had rolled his eyes when she said this, her hands on her hips, but he hadn't pressed the point.

"See those ants, scurrying along?" she said, pointing to them. Heti nodded. "They're living, like you and I. And so they go about, eating and laughing and loving. . ."

"And swimming?" interrupted Hati, who loved to be in the water. His father would often take him for a moonlight swim. He loved that time. Hermione would often sit on the shore with a book, looking up at her makeshift family with a fond smile. Sometimes she came into the water with them, but would scold Hati for staying in too long and letting his skin get pruney. If she didn't come in often enough Fenrir would bodily pick her up and drag her in, kicking and screaming, citing that she needed a bath.

Hati, even as young as he was, rolled his eyes as he watched his parents splash one another repeatedly amidst their laughter.

"Ant's wouldn't swim like we do," said Hermione with a doting smile. "They don't like the water."

"Phooey."

"But ants can do things we can't. They can burrow underground."

Hati quickly changed his tune. "Luuuucky," he whined, immediately jealous.

"You wouldn't like it underground, love. It's cold." She tousled his hair for a second before taking a breath. "When something dies, like the beetle, it goes back to the ground."

"But you said it was cold!"

"It is cold, darling. But when something is dead it no longer cares. Eventually the dead take root and become part of life again. That beetle is going to nourish the ants, and the rest of him will become plants in the spring. Maybe even flowers."

"But plants are living," said Hati, slowly as if he was working out a particularly difficult equation. And, in a way, he was.

"Yes," she smiled.

"So," he looked up into her eyes, his own shining and wide. "Dead means a new life?"

Hermione laughed and gathered him really tight against her chest (Mum, you're squeezing too hard!). "Something like that, darling. I'll explain it too you when you're older."

Hermione half turned her head when she heard some branches breaking behind her.

"There you two are," Fenrir said, his arms crossed over his bare chest (he had opted to please his mate by wearing pants, but he never liked the idea of being fully clothed and so he went shirtless more often than not). "I was wondering if I'd be searching for you all night."

Hati squirmed free of his mother and ran, arms wide, to his tall father who gathered him up in his arms. "Here's my boy!" said Fenris, lifting him up over his head as the boy squealed with joy.

Hermione lifted herself off the ground and went to her mate. Fenrir immediately snaked his arm around her waist when she was close enough and the two shared a somewhat passionate kiss.

"Yuck," said Hati, grimacing at their display of affection.

* * *

Hermione walked alone as was her wont these days. Fenrir insisted that he and his son have bonding times, where he would teach the boy how to hunt. Of course Hati wouldn't be hunting anything dangerous, maybe a butterfly if he was feeling especially brave. Fenrir wanted to teach him the basic life skills, like how to crouch, how to move without making a sound, how to calm your breathing so that even your heartbeat will not give your position away.

She passed a fallen tree (recent, it had barely decayed) and, on a whim, hopped up onto it. She balanced precariously for a second before lifting up her arms perpendicular. She laughed in a childish way as she traipsed across the tough wood, her calloused feet hardly feeling the grooves of bark. When a gay kick of her legs she landed onto the forest ground and started to sprint, her hair wildly whipping at her back.

Ah, such was freedom.

But she wasn't truly free - that would be the denial of responsibility, of her values, of her loved one, of herself. She never spoke of it to Fenrir because she liked his deluded passions sometimes. But she knew that freedom, the kind he desired, sought, and believed to have achieved even without the Dark Lords victory, was not real freedom. There were always roots, something that connected each of them to the earth, to each other.

Hermione knew she would never be free of herself and reveled in the knowledge.

When her energy was mostly depleted she rested beneath a large tree whose wide, strong branches guarded her from the sun while the roots, thick and numerous, gave her a place to rest her head.

Her thoughts wandered.

* * *

"He needs a name," said Fenir, his eyes glowing with intense pride. He held his son, a mewling babe, in one arm while he gathered his still exhausted mate to his chest. "Something strong, you can see he is going to be a great warrior."

Hermione's eyes opened halfway, even that small movement seemed to be an effort. "He's only been born only a few hours. How can you tell?"

"I know," said Fenrir, resting his head on hers. His nostrils flared as he took in the scent of her sweat and blood. Usually her blood either made him feel one of two emotions; anger, if he had not shed it himself, and arousal, if she bled from his bite.

"Augustus," said Hermione, suddenly. "That's a strong name."

Fenrir growled low in his throat. "No."

"No? He was an emperor of Rome," Hermione protested.

"Which fell," Fenrir pointed out. His real reason for his denial of the same was that he vaguely knew that the long dead Lucius had been an emperor of Rome and didn't want any association with the recently deceased pureblood aristocrat.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "What were you thinking of, then?"

"Hati," he breathed, hoping she liked it.

"Hati?" she repeated, stumbling over the name for he said it so softly.

"The name of the wolf who chases the moon," said Fenrir. "Appropriate, don't you think?"

"Hati," she repeated, snuggling up to his warm chest, thinking fondly of the glowing moon. Sometimes, when staring at the bright sliver of it in the sky, where the pull did not cause her to lose her humanity fully, she could look objectively at the source of her transformation. Still, even though after time she would get used to being different, a werewolf and rejected by society as a whole, she would never be totally enveloped in it.

But the moon was still beautiful, and she still wanted to grasp it, bathe in it, be fully one with it.

"It's beautiful," said Hermione.

Fenrir smiled, carefully putting Hati into Hermione's arms and wrapping his own long, hairy ones around them both as his mate drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Hermione awoke with a start, confused that she had dozed off. It was growing dark, the sun was falling below the horizon. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, sighing. She knew she would have to get back home soon or Fenrir would come looking for her. He didn't scare her anymore, not really, but she didn't exactly look forward to being picked up, slung over his shoulder and then hauled away like a sack of potatoes.

She picked herself up and brushed dirts, twigs and leaves from her dress. She tsked as she noticed a few stains and reigned herself to having to have to do some washing in the river this night.

She had only moved a few steps when she heard the unmistakable snapping of twigs. She froze like the cliche' deer, but quickly recovered and bent low to the ground. She silently cursed herself for wearing white; it was a start contrast to the deep brown and green hues of the forest.

If it had been Fenrir she would have known. She could smell him long before he was in sight, a nice perk of being a wolf a few days out of the month. This was a wholly different smell from him. He smelled of the forest, and bloody, something primal and muddy. This scent was young, curious, and faintly familiar.

Hermione lowered herself on her haunches, prepared to strike at whatever the sound eventually became. Her breathing increased, especially when a little voice whispered in her head that she had wandered too far away from the heart of the forest. She was near the edges of a wizarding town. A wizarding town meant death for her and her kind.

A small, almost painfully tiny white form made it way towards her. Hermione started, fear making her ready to attack or run as the need necessitated. But then the white form became clearer. It was a little girl with long black hair, straight, wearing a little white sun dress similar to Hermione's own.

Motherly instincts took charge and flooded her senses. She stood up and began to make her way over to the girl, perhaps pick her up, hug her as she would Hati, and help her find her way home. Of course Fenrir would be furious with worry if she wasn't home soon, but the forest was a dangerous place for a human, especially one so young.

"Lizzie?" came a voice, too close. "Lizzie, don't wander off like that."

Hermione sucked in breath as she froze, her eyes widening and her chest constricting.

A young man bent down and picked up the young girl, who giggled and threw her arms around his neck. The man, his dark hair matching the child's, bent down and lay a playful kiss on her nose.

"What did you find, a big bad wolf?" he said in a playfully low tone. The girl squealed with joy. It almost covered up the pitiful sound that issued, unbidden, from Hermione's throat.

Eyes met. Brown and green, like the forest. Choking breaths.

"Hermione?" It wasn't a question, not really, but a statement of disbelief and a plea.

Her eyes felt dry but everything inside of her had turned wet and heavy.

" . . . Harry."

* * *

A/N: Wooo, what a cliffhanger. I'm so freaking sorry this took forever to update. College is a pain, especially with finals coming up. Not to mention I'm transferring universities so doing the application work for that and the angst, grief and utter humiliation that accompanies that didn't give me a whole lot of will to do much of anything.

But in good news I'm back to writing. This is close to being done and should wrap up in a chapter or two (maybe more. . . who knows). Thank you so much, everyone, for your reviews. They have been absolutely lovely. I'm really glad there is such affection and interest in this pairing since it is rather completely random.

Also, fun fact, in Norse mythology the sons of Fenrir are Hati and Skoll. Hati chases the moon across the sky and Skoll chases the sun. Hati also means "hate" or "hateful one" which I wasn't that fond of for Hermione and Fenrir's son, but it really was choosing the lesser of two rather poor names.


	10. Chapter 10

Hunted

Chapter 10

"Did you want some tea?"

"Pardon?" Hermione lifted her head from where it had been bent low, examining her fingers. They were curious things, her fingers. Thin, not too long, a bit of dirt under the nails, perhaps, but certainly not unattractive.

In any case, they were a sight far easier to look at than the man sitting in front of her.

"I have some tea. . . if you want any," the once familiar man said, looking all for the world like a little boy before his sick mother. He was tiptoeing around her, careful not to upset her and unused to the disease, whatever it could be, that she had. Harry's eyes shone with the thinly veiled desire for approval, something that reminded Hermione too much of her own son.

"Oh. Just a bit, please."

Harry stood up and poured the tea into two quaint little cups. He put one in front of Hermione, along with some milk and sugar. To his credit his hands only shook slightly.

There was an uncomfortable silence where Hermione sipped her tea, avoiding looking into his green eyes.

"I never stopped looking for you," said Harry, suddenly. Their eyes met, and Hermione slowly put her cup down, her hands shaking. She didn't want to drop it ruin the porcelain.

"Harry. . ."

"I thought you were dead plenty of times," he chuckled, not that anything was remotely funny. "I thought maybe he," no need to say _his _name, "had done something to you. Maybe he had eaten you, I don't know."

"Harry."

"After Voldemort fell I figured some sign of you would turn up. We scoured the forests looking for you. Ron and I did," he added unnecessarily. "Lupin got your, uh, scent and looked. But we never did find anything."

Gods, she wanted him to stop.

"I never lost faith. I knew I'd see you again. I just knew it. Ginny is going to be so happy. We're married now, you know? Oh, and Ron of course. All the Weasley's." His face glazed over into a mask of happiness, and Hermione couldn't bare to look at it. "Molly carried on, you should have heard her. She apologized for that time she said all those nasty things to you about that article Rita Skeeter had written. Oh, Merlin, you can get to know Lizzie now. She's my daughter, my eldest. Ginny's expecting again. We think it's going to be a boy. I named you Lizzie's godmother, 'cause I know you weren't gone, not really."

"Harry, please. . ."

"It'll just be like it was, except without the sociopath trying to kill us at every turn. Oh, and Lizzie. You'll love her though. I told her all about you, she's already in love with you. It'll be just like old times, you'll see, it's be just like-"

"Harry!" she shouted at him, and the glazed look abandoned his eyes at once. He looked at her, afraid, trembling, seeing her for the first time perhaps. That moment was soon gone, however, and he swallowed.

"Have I gone on too much?" he asked.

She put her head in her hands. "I have a son, Harry."

There was an intake of breath, and she didn't have to look at him to know there was uncomfortable horror on his face.

"Did he," he struggled to find a word. "Did he force you to-"

"Stop right there, Harry Potter," her voice was picking up the familiar bossy tones that he had acquiesced to so often as a boy. "You're going to a place that won't be easy to come back from."

"He did, didn't he," the boy said, quietly.

"He changed me, Harry. In lots of ways, and not only the ways that you're thinking."

"He hurt you."

Hermione sighed, blankly wondering if Fenrir had started to look for her already. "I won't deny that he did, in the beginning. It wasn't of my free will."

"I'll kill him," he swore, the same look of his childhood flashing before his eyes.

Hermione felt something in her chest constrict, if only because she saw that Harry had still not grown up. Not fully. Not like she had.

If she thought about it, she might have found that strange. She had grown up fast, faster than her hymen had been ripped, and with the maturity came the skidding half of many misconceptions. But even so, she thought of Hati, his little nose wrinkled at her, and could not help the smile on her lips, nor the warmth in her chest when she thought of Fenir sleeping beside her, his arms wrapped around her waist and his face nuzzled into her hair.

"You will not," she said quietly.

"Hermione, you can't just-"

"No."

Harry opened his mouth to say something, but Lizzie, making her way into the kitchen, stopped the words on his lips.

"Daddy," the girl said, shyly staring at Hermione. "Can I have some milk?"

Harry got up like an automaton, mechanically getting a cup and pouring the milk. He handed the glass gently to his daughter. "Is this enough for you? Perhaps too much, you're but a wee thing."

Hermione felt tenderness welling in her heart as she gazed upon them.

Lizzie giggled, grasping onto Harry's pant leg with her free hand. "Daddy," she said.

"What is it, sweetheart?"

"Who is she?" she asked innocently, her big, green eyes wide and staring with a curious intent not unlike Hati when he saw a beetle that was particularly fascinating.

"She's. . ." and he hesitated. Really, what could he say to the girl?

She's a ghost, darling. Back from the dead all spick and span. Not as innocent as we last saw her, but back in one piece she is. Might be a little deranged, might be a little damaged, but it's nothing a bit of spellotape, potions and therapy can't fix.

Or maybe. . .

She's a friend but she's sleeping with the enemy. Worse, she has a son with the enemy. By association that makes her my enemy, but I can't drag myself through the emotional torment of muck and mire at this present moment to acknowledge the fact. Maybe in a few days when I get over the novelty of seeing her in a tangible form and outside of my yearnings.

Better still. . .

She looks like someone I used to love but she isn't that person. What happened to the girl I loved as my friend, my sister, even my mother.

"She's Hermione Granger," he settled on, looking to her uncertainly. As if in his eyes he was asking her, _you are Hermione Granger, aren't you?_

Somewhere, in her chest, deep within that constricting orifice, Hermione felt her heart stiffen, and her immediate thought was of Fenrir.

"I am Hermione," said Hermione to the little girl, though her eyes were on Harry. "But I am not Granger."

* * *

It was some time before Hermione left the house that Harry built, the stone cottage that Harry and Ginny and Lizzie called home. There had been shouting, tears, and a choked confession from her mouth. Though she stumbled over the words (words used to have a more sensuous meaning for her, now they were too telling and made her cold) but managed to get them out.

Now she was moving, her legs carrying her quickly through the woods.

"_I won't let you go back to him."_

"_You haven't any choice."_

"_What the bloody hell are you talking about! I'm not about to let you go back to that . . . that murderer!"_

"_It's my choice."_

Pause.

"_You can't seriously mean that."_

"_I do."_

"_But after what he did. . ."_

"_I don't have any hatred in me for what he did. I love our son. I care for them both."_

"_You're mad."_

In the end she hadn't cried, nor shown any outward sign of agony. She imagined that Fenrir might have been proud of her for it, and it brought a warm flush to her cheeks.

He met her at the edge of the forest, worry written in large letters across his face. His tense shoulders slumped in relief when he saw her.

"Did you get lost?" he asked sardonically, moving to embrace her.

She leaned her body into his, resting her head on his shoulder. "I met an old friend. I didn't mean to make you worry," she said.

"I thought maybe something had happened. I thought maybe someone had hurt you."

"You'd never let that happen," she said, a small smile forming on her lips.

Of course he'd never let that happen. He was the only one who was allowed to hurt her, and he forbade himself even that right.

She was moving her hands into his hair, preparing to pull him down into a kiss, when a voice cracked in the woods.

"Get your filthy hands off of her."

It was Harry, his wand drawn, and his handsome face twisted into an ugly mess of hatred.

* * *

a/n: ... okay one more chapter and then the epilogue. 


	11. Chapter 11

Hunted

Chapter 11

It was a silly thought, really. Especially now. But it came regardless, a little twittering butterfly, flitting across her mind. She looked into Harry's green eyes and wondered if this is what he looked like when he faced Voldemort. There was as intensity, a determination that she had seen before.

It was the same look when he searched out the Philosophers Stone, the same one when they saw Mrs. Norris stunned in front of that bloody message. It was there when they faced Sirius in the shrieking shack, and again when they, together, blasted Professor Snape clear off his feet. It was there when he said goodbye to her in the tent when he went to face the dragon at the Tri-wizard tournament, and again when they trained for the DA.

It had always been there, she realized. For a boy who had been so unsure of himself, he was very determined.

She had never been on this end of his eyes before, and it filled her with dread.

Fenrir immediately put himself in front of Hermione, pushing her behind him none too gently. She could see the tense muscles rising on his back, knots of rope they were, and they led up all the way to his neck. She placed her hands, cool from fear, on the large expanse of flesh between his shoulder blades. He relaxed a fraction, but the growl in his throat was unmistakable.

"Put that wand away, boy," he said, his gruff voice making a mockery of the youth of Harry's tones.

"Let her go, you filthy animal!" Harry shrieked.

Filthy. The word rang throughout Hermione, like little bells all over her skin. _For whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee_, ah yes indeedy. The thoughts of a grey eyed, equally angry wizard with pale hair and pale skin and pale morals calling her the same thing, _filthy filthy mudblood, _again and again, like a mantra in the space between ears.

"You will not threaten me or my mate."

She imagined his eyes must be narrowed into little slits by now. Furiously she pressed herself against him, hoping that her presence at his back, her full presence at his full back, would calm him. Anything to keep them from killing one another.

"She isn't your _mate_!" Harry spat the word like it was a fly trapped between his teeth. "You stole her from me, you son of a bitch. You fucking stole her from me!" He let out a curse then, just as Fenrir leaped forward in some blind, aggressive charge.

Hermione was faintly aware of her own scream echoing through the trees, and a black thought of what would happen to Hati if Fenrir died?

Moments like these pass very quickly, even slow-motion quickly, where the seconds are drawn out because the mind and body become numb. A woman like Hermione, who had dedicated most of her life towards learning the details of every situation, object, person, and place cannot cope with unprecedented events. She had never had two men she cared for rip one another apart in front of her. She closed down. Averted her eyes. Hope that if one of them fell they would both fall, and somehow take her with her so that she wouldn't have to survive with the loss of both.

Hati, again, and she knew she had to survive. Fenrir, too, must survive. And Harry had to live for Ginny and Lizzie.

When her eyes opened she was met with Harry, tattered robes and bleeding arm, half standing and half crouching over Fenrir, whose face was contorted with blood. The werewolf made to stand, but Harry's wand quickly trained itself on his face and began to glow green. Green like his beautiful eyes.

"_Avada Kedavra_"

She must have apparated. Subconsciously perhaps. In one instant she was feet and miles away, and the next she was laying over his body, her hair falling into the blood on his face. Her almost nude back was exposed to Harry's wand, her face half crushed to Fenrir's shoulder, half pleading with Harry.

Hermione was lucky that Harry had not dedicated his life to studying and found more enjoyment in Quiddich. Reflexes had been honed, and in this instant it served him well. At the first sign of her familiar, longed for bushy hair, he tipped his wand away and a tree, thousands of years old, father and grandfather to thousands of fledglings, turned grey and black within seconds.

"Move, Hermione."

"No," she whispered, her voice barely recognizable to her own ears, it was so wet with tears. "No," she repeated, stronger this time.

Fenrir made a movement to push her off him, but her pressed her body into his own, her tears and saliva from her opened, pained mouth mixing on his chest. He whined without dignity, caught between his desire to rip apart the threat and the desire to comfort his mate.

"You're hurting me, Harry," she continued, wrapping her arms around Fenrir, attempting to burrow her self into his body. "Can't you see that you're tearing me apart?"

Harry's breath hitched. "You can't mean that."

But Hermione didn't hear him. She only cried harder, to the point where she didn't even know the reason why for her tears. Her face seemed to be stuck in this contortion of sorrow which made her both pitiful and empathetic.

Fenrir tried to wrap his arms around her. Her called her name softly, tried to soothe her. He tried to stroke her hair, to let her know that it was going to be okay. Oh my dear, you'll only make yourself sick if you keep crying like that.

Every time he tried she only made louder, cut off, choked noises of wetness. She clung to him in a quiet desperation, and each one felt that their hearts would break in that moment if they were not touching. They needed that physical reminder of the others presence, for if they were parted, all that they were would rupture and crumble into irreplaceable pieces.

Somewhere above her, like some benevolent and guilty deity, she heard Harry say, "I never meant to hurt you" and nothing more.

* * *

A/N: All that remains now is the epilogue. I'm going to warn you now, it'll be irritatingly short.


	12. Epilogue

Hunted

Epilogue

Heavy were the arms that bore the woman down onto a bed made from leaves, straw and grasses. The great alpha werewolf of our age knelt before the greatest mind of our age, and laid his head upon her stomach, relishing with raised hairs and lowered ears the feel of her warm, wet hands on his back.

"You're mine," he purred, arching his back in an uncanny feline grace. When her hands faltered and stopped in their massage he raised his head, a somber question in his eyes. "Yes?"

Laughter escaped in stuttered breath without the backing of crystal noise. She resumed her perusal of her hands on his body. "Yes."

"Wolves mate for life," he said needlessly, his tongue darting out and soothing her smooth and grimy stomach.

"You're not only a wolf."

Ah, but of course he wasn't. So much more lay beneath the fur.

"You are so much more than a woman," he countered, his eyes hard with the truth of his sentiment. She did laugh, then, at the hard look in his face. A sentient sentiment! How charming, she thought.

She cupped his cheeks until they relaxed against her hand.

They mingled for a long time like that, man and beast, woman and man and beast and beast and beast. Their chests and breasts collided, a cacophony of stuttered breath yet their hearts beat in a harmony of the pounding paws of their brethren. Tongues on hair, on skin, on an exposed nipple peaked with the morning dew. It was such a sweet, intoxicating mixture, and Fenrir groaned against it all.

"Hermione," he whispered into her hair, gathering her close.

She rolled him gently until she was on top of his undulating form. Her nails scritch-scratched onto his chest, and his breath hissed between sharp canines.

When both lay panting, eyes gasping and rolling in the dark yet always meeting, they collapsed on one another.

Fenrir slept peacefully between the arms and legs of the woman he loved.

* * *

a/n: Short and sweet. Hope it fits the bill, as it were, especially since this was supposed to be a one shot.

Now just a few words on this fic, since we're at the end:

I agree wholeheartedly with the reviewers who said Hugh Jackman would make an excellent Fenrir. Then again, maybe it's the deliciousness of Wolverine that I'm imagining. Mmm, someone should make a Wolverine/Hermione manip. Of course, the descriptions in the novels make him out to be a tad on the ugly side, but let's face it, fanfiction really has been getting ugly wizards laid since 1997 (I saw it on an avatar and it's true).

I'm very sure that I'm at the end of my indulging in Fenrir and Hermione. I'm a Severus/Hermione shipper at heart and will probably go back to those sails for quite some time now. I really do want to see someone else try their hand at this unique pairing. I check around a few sites to see if anyone else has written anything but usually I'm disappointed by the lack of fics and the severe lack of art. If anyone does write or create anything with this pairing I'd love to see and review it.

Thank you so much to those who have read and reviewed. Your kind words have been the reason I've kept hacking away at this. I'm a bit sad (though relieved) that it's finally over, but I am hoping someone out there will pick up the uh, insert proper sailing metaphor, and continue on!

Thanks again! One final review would not be remiss.

Oh, and, before I forget, I am looking for a beta since I did not have one for most of this project... nor most of my other ones except when I could get Flowerpagoda away from her thesis. If anyone is interested and qualified feel free to shoot me a PM or e-mail. It wouldn't be too hard of a job since I'm utter shyte at updating frequently.


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